


hold me fast

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay kinda, Corsetry, F/M, Femdom, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Trans Female Character, Weight Gain, tightlacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26429995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: “It means I’m taking care of you, sweetness,” she croons, the ends of her hair gliding over his neck. “It means you’re not dealing with anything scarier than paperwork. Hubie, it means you’re safe.”Somewhere far away from image, from responsibility, Mercie holds Hubert tight.
Relationships: Mercedes von Martritz/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	hold me fast

**Author's Note:**

> mercedes is a trans lady in this and i use the word 'cock' vis a vis her situation. i hope this is okay with everyone, and if it isn't then i apologize.

His wife’s sweet voice feels the same as her hands--pooling over him like warm syrup, covering him, making everything sweet, slow-dripping. Hubert barely misses what it is she’s saying--has to ask her, in a hushed, pressed tone, to repeat herself.

She only laughs a little, gracious. “I said, Hubie,” she tells him, “that you’re filling it out a little better since last time.” Those hands smooth over the black-satin corset as punctuation, following the contours of whalebone and waist. At the bottom, her palm slips between his softening thighs, petting just above the hem of lace-edged stockings.

Her fingers are so near where he needs her that Hubert can scarcely _think,_ but still he colors at the observation.

“No, no, love,” she murmurs, kneading a little at milk-pale flesh, “I adore it.”

Her free hand runs back over his body, forming to the waxing crescent of his breast. She’s nearly curled all the way over him, radiating a gentle late-spring warmth, and Hubert shivers with it.

“It means I’m taking care of you, sweetness,” she croons, the ends of her hair gliding over his neck. “It means you’re not dealing with anything scarier than paperwork. Hubie, it means you’re safe.”

Safe, yes, there’s sense in that. Provided for, also--safe and _hers._ Hubert shifts up on his knees, arching his back into her with a whimper.

She giggles, giving his backside a playful pinch. “And I love the way you feel like this. The way you look, but I always have.”

A kiss, then, at the knobby vertebra between neck and back. Her glossy lips speak something small into his skin--barely voiced, but Hubert doesn’t have to hear it to know what it might be. _Sweetness,_ perhaps, or _darling. Hubie,_ she calls him, always when they are like this.

He huffs, twists, because he cannot translate _please, Mercie, get on with it_ into the tender tongue that she deserves. Still, she understands.

She’s gone for a moment, and he wracks with the lost heat until she returns, the mattress dipping with her warm weight. She presses a little something into his hand--their familiar bright-brass handbell, to ring if he can’t speak. If there’s anything he needs to say.

He doesn’t anticipate saying much of anything at all.

“Ready?” She straightens at his assenting nod, comes to kneel behind him, her thighs just brushing his. He can feel her cock like this, through sleek scant underthings, and there’s nothing for it but to press back into her, sighing.

“Not quite yet, lovely,” she reminds, perhaps the most gently anyone in history’s been chided. And Hubert knows, and is rueful for a moment before her fingers come trailing across the corset’s laces and the breath goes out of him.

Well. Not all the way. Not yet.

Her embroiderer’s fingers make quick work of the little bow she’s left, wrapping the ribbons round her palms. Hubert cries out, just a little, when she _pulls._

“Too tight?” Mercedes’ tone is like a light-spiced tea, with the barest edge of teasing.

Hubert just laughs. “O-on the contrary.”

It always takes a little bit of adjusting, a pregnant interlude while she finds that spot, the intersecting point of safety and thrill. Hubert shudders when she ties his bow again, kisses that same spot to tell him that she’s done.

He feels… _captive_ isn’t the word. _Owned,_ perhaps, held tight in a delirious sort of certainty.

He wants her inside of him, wants her body molded to his back, her hot crooning breaths in his ear. He pants with it.

”Aren’t you sweet?” she murmurs, as if she doesn’t know. As if she’s not deliberately holding off, brushing the backs of her fingers up and down his sides. A skimming touch, barely-there--it makes him _tremble_ for how much more he wants.

“The loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” Her voice is breathless, as if she’s trussed just as tight, as breathless as him. Plump fingers sift through his hair, tugging under the lace choker at his neck. “Done up so nicely for me, darling, you’ve been so patient.”

_“Yes,”_ he hisses, breath tremoring. So strained it nearly comes out on a wheeze, but his fingers clench tight as ever around the bell.

He isn’t sure whether her words make him feel more or less urgent, needy. Because--she speaks to him like this, gentle, in the hushed tones one might reserve for a portrait gallery. Something to be kept on a mantlepiece, to be cherished, admired.

Mercedes’ palms form to his sides, slipping down slow over his nipped waist, kneading the softness that gathers at his hips. He pants, and she soothes him into slower, measured breathing.

“My Hubie,” she murmurs, as dulcet as anything. “My darling, what would you like?”

His breast heaves, his hips spasm. “Inside,” he mumbles, “please, I’m ready.”

One hand lifts from the curve of his hipbone, travels mercifully quick to catch at his rim, slick from where she’d opened him earlier. Before dinner, just so he’d look at her pleading across the table, so he’d sink out of obligation, out of work and into a space that was all hazed anticipation.

He pangs all the more with it now, when it’s finally within reach. When she’s so close to him, warm and enfolding like the finest eiderdown. Even more when her lips brush at the shell of his ear, when she soothes him whisper-soft through the motion of lining herself up, pressing desperately slow inside.

He’s sure he’ll never get used to the feel of her like this, heavy draped over him, heavier inside. When his breaths come fast and dizzyingly shallow, when she lays her open mouth on his shoulder blade, calls him _precious_ and _beautiful, cherished_ and _dear_ and _hers._

Calls him _darling,_ calls him _only,_ calls him _the loveliest sweet thing she’s seen._

Like he’s a treasure. Something for pride of place on the parlor shelf, not the cobwebbed secret passageway behind. Like he’s an heirloom, something that _belongs_ with her, to be prized and prized and prized.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! thanks for reading!
> 
> i thought you deserved a little treat after the past week, since i spent so long talking about a character that lots of people don't like. so, here you are! i hope you enjoyed it, and that you didn't notice me using the same confectionary-based imagery i use in all my mercie fics.
> 
> do tell me what you thought of this, and come chill with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) if you like! cheers!


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